


Blood of the Covenant

by diamondglass



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other, POV First Person, Plotty, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, sorry I got carried away.....again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondglass/pseuds/diamondglass
Summary: Thrawn recruits a crewman to a special task force hunting Imperial deserters.Main character is brazenly feature- and personality-less à la Stephanie Meyer for the reader's maximum self-insertion. Abandon all shame ye who enter here!





	1. Chapter 1

I.

A new line on the communications interface blinked red. Every message in and out of the _Chimaera_ —disarmament codes, secret coordinates, encrypted data of all manner—relayed through this room. A dozen enlistees, each at our own station, sat answering hails, scheduling holo-conferences, converting radio to subspace, monitoring long-range transceivers: tasks deemed too menial for anyone of higher rank.

At any other time, the comms center flooded with movement and sound, operators speaking softly into their microphones or listening in on transmissions, technicians and officers coming and going; but on night-watch the comms were silent as the grave. Only a line of green lights indicated channels were still receiving. My last posting aboard the _Dagger_ had at least allowed repose during the dull shifts, amongst the informality of a light cruiser's three-personed comms division; but aboard a Star Destroyer (and the flagship no less) officers lurked around every corner, ready to penalize any unsuspecting crewmen leaning back in their seat or taking off their cap.

A tap on my shoulder broke through the mind-numbing static of my headset. Ensign Bennick, second officer of the comms center, stood behind my chair. He had taken a liking to me soon after my transfer to the _Chimaera_ ; or so indicated his persistent leering. I removed my headset.

As always, to my irritation, he addressed me by my given name: "Iszafred—Lieutenant Commander Tiege is waiting for you in the passage." He spoke low to avoid any eavesdroppers.

"Tiege?" I asked. "What does he want with me?"

"He didn't say. I told him not to keep you long."

I glanced at the open doorway. Tiege, long-faced and snobbish, peered sideways into the comms center. Bennick covered my station and I left the room, procuring a few observations from my fellow technicians.

The door hissed shut behind me and cut off those curious looks. I saw now that a service droid, holding a tray of two cups and a caf-pot, accompanied Tiege. He walked us to a more isolated part of the passage.

"I have been instructed to relay an order to you," said he. "Deliver this tray to Upper Deck One." The droid presented the caf-tray to me. I took it without yet understanding the circumstances.

"That's the command tower," I said. "I'm not cleared for that deck, sir."

"Your code cylinder was recently updated. I have no further information to offer," replied the Lt. Commander, and without further explanation he departed down the passageway. The service droid drifted after him.

I looked down at the caf-pot and cups, proper glass cups, unlike the tinware we used in the mess hall. Food delivery was droid work. Even this late, when the galleys had been closed for hours, protocol went against pulling a crewman from her station just to make a delivery to the upper decks. I loitered a while, staring at the empty end of the passage where Tiege and his droid had disappeared, before proceeding to the nearest lift.

Rarely had my duties ever taken me away from a comm station or, priorly, the engineering deck, before my supervisors had realized my clumsy hands would never safely wield a power tool or keep cables from tangling. The ship was stilled but for the ceaseless hum that pervaded her bulkheads, like breath through an animal. I was halfway to the command tower lifts when I realized just exactly where Upper Deck One was. Five decks counting down from the bridge placed it just above the officer cabins: the Captain's quarters—or, in our flagship, the Grand Admiral's.

These orders were ostensibly pretence; whether or not of Lt. Commander Tiege's invention, and for what purpose, I could not fathom. I questioned what the Grand Admiral could be up to during these off-hours, when senior officers were usually asleep and not to be disturbed.

The ship itself rested at this hour. The crew en masse dozed in their berthing. The passageway outside the Grand Admiral's quarters was exceptionally still, forbiddingly, as if even the air circulators feared to disturb him. A single door, unusually wide, even for a Star Destroyer, was a few paces from the lift, exactly in the middle of the passage. I pressed the door com and tentatively leaned in to announce myself: "Caf delivery—? Per the Grand Admiral's request."

The door slid open before my finger released the com and revealed a gray, stocky creature. Though I had never seen one in person, I had heard of these freakish little aliens the Admiral kept as servants—or pets, according to who you spoke to.

It said nothing. I presented the tray, prepared to hand it over and return to my post. Instead of accepting the alien stepped aside and beckoned me to enter. I proceeded inside.

Until now, Grand Admiral Thrawn was all but unknown to me. He did not publicize his image throughout his command as I had experienced from other high-ranking commanders. Descriptions chanced through word of mouth: black hair, blue skin, eyes glowing red like a mythic beast. About his character I knew even less. The lack of gossip about him among the crew demonstrated, I considered, either fear or reverence.

I found myself in an unfurnished entry hall, tray jittering in my hands, until the alien closed the door behind us and led me through to an inner room—bleak, spacious, and dimly lit, unlike the lavish cabins most officers enjoyed.

The office itself was plain, but a great assortment of paintings and sculptures of no single taste adorned the bulkheads, a fine but disorganized gallery, wild Outer Rim totems between classical portraits and antique death masks. At the far end of the room, two lamps illuminated a curved desk at which sat a woman in a black uniform, faced away, and another with his head bowed, blue skin and white uniform gleaming under the lamplight, inputting something into his computer-desk: Grand Admiral Thrawn.

"Come in, Crewman," he called without raising his head. His voice was unusually faint, not the rich baritone one envisioned from military leaders.

The woman, a stormtrooper officer, pivoted her chair to have a look at me; then her eyes dulled, decided I was inconsequential, and turned away. The gold square on her insignia plaque identified her as a major.

I walked forward as ordered but paused at my next role: whether to present the tray or leave it aside, to pour the caf or allow the officers to do it themselves. The desk lacked sufficient space so I placed the tray instead on an empty side-table. Still the officers paid me no further mind. I glanced back at the entry hall; the door was closed. Deciding I preferred to overreach my ill-defined duties than neglect them, I began pouring the caf into either of the two cups.

"Crewman Wilpress?"

My arm convulsed, splashing caf on the saucer. Slowly, I placed the decanter down and circled around to stand at attention. "Yes, sir?" I said, raising my hand into a salute and glancing between the two officers, unsure which had spoken my name.

"Crewman," said the Admiral; it was his voice that had then addressed me. "Please, have a seat."

A moment passed before I grasped the meaning of his words. "A seat?" I repeated. I looked to the Major, but her attention was on the datapad in her lap.

The Admiral, with rigid movement, gestured to the empty conference chair beside the Major. An open box lined in black velvet sat on the desk before him, next to a large datapad. For the first time now I met the Grand Admiral's eyes, rose-red, alluring, difficult to draw away from, like an unknown light in the abyss. I assumed the seat slowly, hesitant to drop my weight, as if despite the invitation my low rank forbade me.

When the officers did not immediately explain themselves, I spoke up: "I apologize if there's been a mistake, sirs. I received orders from Lt. Commander Tiege to deliver that caf-tray."

"That order was merely to deceive your superiors about the true purpose of your summons," said the Admiral.

Reminded of the refreshments, the Major rose to take a cup from the tray. She gestured to the Admiral with the caf-pot. "Any for you?"

Without glancing at her, he replied, "No thank you, Major." From a desk drawer the Admiral removed a white glove and pulled it onto his left hand.

Growing more confused, I pressed for an answer. "Am I already in trouble with the fleet commander?" I asked. "I've only just transferred here."

"No trouble. Major Griston and I merely need information."

With his gloved hand the Admiral reached into the box on his desk and withdrew a strand of wooden beads, chalky white, like those which hung off my fingers in prayer as a child. The length of the beads lifted from the box, revealing pink pearls which replaced every third bead and a talisman that secured the strands in their distinctive loop-knot. This was a creation of my homeworld, our church and doctrine, a token of the life I had renounced for the Imperial Navy.

"Do you recognize this, Crewman?"

No one on the fleet had ever heard of Djaeth, that planetoid which held my whole life and everything I had known before enlistment, let alone acknowledged me as its native.

"Speak up. You are Djaethi, aren't you?" said the Major, standing with the cup and saucer in hand.

"Yes. I recognize the beads. Well, they aren't mine—but they are Djaethi prayer beads. _Hoshkith_. Every Djaethite has one."

"That much we gathered from our records," replied the Admiral. "We hoped you could tell us more. I have learned these pearls indicate the necklace was likely crafted in the Eheire province, and the rarity of the materials suggest it belonged to a church official or someone of wealth."

"May I look closer?" I asked, extending my hand.

"Yes—without touching. Our lab has not finished with them."

The Admiral set a silk kerchief on the desk, a bed for the _hoshkith_ , and elicited a magnifier from a drawer. I pulled my chair forward and, placing the magnifier over the beads, leaned forward. After a moment's study I said, "They are speckled like Djaethi pearls, and they have that pinkish look—but even so I can't say whether or not they're Eheiren. Then again—" I lifted my face from the magnifier. "There was this trick my mother used to tell whether pearls were real or not. At least—real Djaethi pearls. Our oceans have a high amount of magnesium. Real pearls will have a salty or metallic taste when you bite into them—"

"We can't bite into them. It's evidence," barked the Major.

"Yes, but the lab can analyze the pearls and," I added with a look at Admiral Thrawn, "potentially, determine the magnesium content of the water they were formed in."

A smile touched the Admiral's lips. "I will inform our technicians," he said. "Can you tell us anything further?"

"I'll certainly try, sir," I replied, and replaced my eye to the magnifier. "Admiral, could you separate two pearls for me? Thank you. Ah, this is strung with regular old thread. Most _hoshkith_ beads are strung with hair—the fancy ones anyway."

I further examined the mothwood beads, but I could say no more than to affirm the Admiral's assumption about the clerical origins. The pendant, an icon of Ahnnua, god of earth and plant life, told me nothing more than nature had personal significance to the owner. "It's a pretty _hoshkith_ , probably expensive. It might have belonged to a clergyman, but the thread makes me think otherwise. I can't say anything for certain."

"So you can’t say anything at all, really," griped the Major.

"That is an exaggeration, Major. The crewman has been most helpful in clearing up our misinformation."

"Doesn't bring us anywhere closer to our goal," she retorted.

The Admiral’s lip curled inward; had I not already been studying his strange features so slight a movement would have gone unnoticed. Perhaps his composure veiled a temper, his unreadable eyes strangling inward passion, his blue skin concealing any flush. Whatever his thoughts and feelings, his composure steadied. He replaced the _hoshkith_ in its box, closed the lid carefully, and removed the glove with which he handled the items.

I folded my hands in my lap and glanced at Major Griston, whose eyes did not leave the Admiral. "Excuse me, sir. Am I permitted to know what this is about?"

Griston’s cup clattered in its saucer. "Absolutely not," she said.

After a pause, allowing the Major’s clamor to dissipate, Thrawn answered, "This is above your security clearance. What we've discussed here," he placed a hand on the box, "does not leave this room."

"I understand, sir."

"You are dismissed."

I stood and moved toward the door; but hesitated and turned back around.

The Admiral and the Major raised their eyes expectantly.

"I apologize, sirs. I would regret if I did not at least learn where you found the _hoshkith_? What makes it significant?"

Admiral Thrawn smiled: an unsettling change to his rigid features. “I am confident you can put the puzzle together yourself, halfway, at least.” His eyes shifted to the door, where stood the same gray creature that showed me in. “Rukh, please see Crewman Wilpress out.”

Already I was unacceptably late to report back to watch, and without an alibi I was able to share; I was in no hurry to return to the inevitable reprimand from my supervisor; too bad I had not asked the Admiral for a tardy slip.

Rumors had reached even my oblivious ear about Grand Admiral Thrawn's operation to hunt down the deserters from the _Stormhawk_ : six weeks ago a lieutenant and a stormtrooper had escaped on a docked supply ship. A specialized task force—supposedly—was assigned to investigate, which could have explained the Major's presence in the Grand Admiral's suite, and the Chimaera's unexplained two-day excursion (three days, in an hour) less than a light-year from Borgo Prime—but my speculation ran cold at why _hoshkith_ prayer beads had any significance on the trail of Imperial deserters. To my knowledge, I was the sole Djaethite in the entirety of the Imperial Services.

Our culture deplored ambition and our people rarely took interest in the happenings beyond our cloistered world. To pray, farm, and fish was enough to fulfill their soul. My lust, as it was called at home, for something beyond what the gods granted me at birth was an aberration. If there were other Djaethites out here among the stars, stirring enough attention to have their personal belongings wind up on the desk of a Grand Admiral, I had certainly never heard of them.

A proper upbraiding was received at the comms station as expected. My excuse of losing my way among the Star Destroyer's unfamiliar passageways was cynically accepted. The remainder of night watch, in all outward experiences, continued unchanged.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sagittarius season everyone!
> 
> Also, there has been a slight title change; I was avoiding yet another proverbial title but I gave in. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

II.

For another eight hours the _Chimaera_ remained at Borgo Prime. As instructed, I concealed my late-night visit to the Grand Admiral's suite; inwardly, I thought of little else.

During the slow night watches and off-hours alike, apparitions of the Grand Admiral plagued me: wraithlike face and eyes. His voice echoed similarly in my mind. Whether I impressed him as he did me remained doubtful; indistinct forces allured me to him and stirred at any time inane speculations about his present occupation and whereabouts.

No clues concerning the Admiral's plans escaped the bridge or command—we remained among the Fleet with routine orders. These days of monotony unhinged my imagination and curiousness about the Grand Admiral's affairs. Even my rackmate, a nav technician, seldom offered information as to the _Chimaera_ 's future movements.

Of the three other crewmen I shared a tiny cabin with, my rackmate Bria, a human girl from the Core, was my closest friend; friend being a tepid phrase in the Seventh Fleet, where transfers and promotions were a daily occurrence. Her station was on the bridge, the axis of the fleet's happenings and origin of all navy gossip. If there was anything more to uncover about the deserters, she may have learned something up there.

One night while I changed out of uniform, Bria lounged in her rack reading mail on her datapad. On my way in I had glimpsed its address: a letter from Jeres, her brother. I asked, "Did you hear of those deserters on the _Stormhawk_?"

She looked up briefly. "Yeah. What of it?"

I shrugged. "I was thinking about it. Wondering why they did it like that. Why not wait until their ship was away from the fleet?—or why not try and slip away during shore leave?"

"Doubt they thought it all the way through, if they were stupid enough to desert in the first place."

"It was a stormtrooper and a lieutenant, right? They had to be somewhat organized."

"Organized or not, they made a clean break for it. I'll give them that." She shut up her datapad and stuck it on the shelf above her pillow, then turned out the reading light and pulled the blanket over her shoulder.

In the dim light seeping in from the passage I folded my uniform and tucked it away before climbing into my rack above Bria.

My letters from home were few and far between. The most recent was three months old: a short message announcing the birth of another child and entreating me, not for the first time, to come home. I fell asleep envisioning the infant; I imagined she took after my brother, as his other children did, and thought of my sister-in-law teaching her to walk on the beach by our home, as my parents taught me. I longed fall asleep in the endless chorus of waves, swathed in warm sea-air; not the artificial hum of a space cruiser, recycled air whirring through bulkheads.

 

x

 

The days dragged on as usual before an issue stirred the otherwise dreary communications center. Watch began at 0700 and passed routinely until a commotion drew my attention away from my work.

A circle had gathered at an operator's station cornerwise to my rear: Lt. Commander Kerken and Ensign Bennick stood on either side of the operator, staring somberly downward, while she pressed her headset against one ear and worked furiously at her console. Other crewmen noticed the situation, peering over their shoulders or up from a downturned face, but overall, unlike myself, minded their own stations. I shifted one side of my headset off my ear to listen in on their conversation, which they made no discernible endeavor to conceal.

"—not a thing, sir," the operator was saying, keying audibly into the console. "Almost like I've been locked out remotely—but the firewall ain't been bypassed, I checked with engineering, and the servers are in order. The first few said my console's access code is already in use, but now I'm getting every error in the book."

"Is it possible someone else is using your access code?" asked Kerken.

"I wouldn't think so. My code cylinder is functioning just fine, and I don't imagine anyone could repeat the whole thing from memory."

Bennick added, "My readout counts the standard twelve administrators, sir."

I pried once more in their direction. The operator was now out of her chair and leaning under the console to check the hardware. Bennick caught my eye. I nodded toward the malfunctioning console; he shrugged in reply.

The motion, however discreet, did not escape Lt. Commander Kerken's attention. He glanced up and traced Bennick's gaze before I could turn away. His glower fixated on me. "Something you have to say, Crewman?"

"No sir," I replied, and turned back to my station; but I could not detach from the conversation. If the operator's statements were accurate and the access code proved uncorrupted, the issue doubtlessly resulted from the server itself; but the oddities of the malfunction suggested more. Perhaps, as the officers offhandedly dismissed, a system breach—a slicer.

"Don't see anything wrong, sir, but I'd call maintenance to have a closer look," said the operator, pulling herself up from the floor.

"Very well," sighed Kerken. "In the meantime, reset your console and start the full diagnostic."

A full diagnostic would waste hours—at best, a delay to identifying the true source of the malfunction; at worst, another hour at our slicer's leisure. Whether motivated by conscience or the desire to correct a superior's atrocious error, my mouth was unable to stay shut.

"I couldn't help overhearing, sir," I said, rising to face Kerken and Bennick. "If accessing the server is the only difficulty, that usually signifies a software issue—"

"Crewman. I specialized in telecommunications engineering at the Royal Imperial Academy. I am well aware of usual explanations. If you listened closely instead of half-heartedly eavesdropping, you would have heard my orders for a full diagnostic."

"Not just software in the console, sir. If the system rejects access to a particular code but is otherwise functional, our server could be compromised, or—"

"Compromised?" Kerken repeated with a laugh. "This is the flagship of the most technologically advanced fleet in the galaxy. Do you truly believe someone has not only managed to pinpoint our location and find a wide-open gap in security, but has chosen this opportunity to access, of all the things, a communication server? Or do you suppose the engineering section has been invaded while all fifty-thousand crew members serving aboard this vessel remain unaware?"

I paused. Even as I spoke pangs of regret coursed in my gut: "If the rest are as ignorant as you, sir, I would say it's entirely possible."

Ensign Bennick scrunched his eyes shut and hung his head. Kerken's flat, dissatisfied mouth twisted into a scowl. After a prolonged glare, he turned to the operator at his right and barked, "Crewman. Get me Captain Ral in security."

The crewman, who pretended he hadn't been watching the discord going on beside him, immediately placed the call. "Captain Ral for you, sir," he announced a moment later.

"Wonderful." He leaned forward to disconnect the operator's headset, and maintained bitter eye contact with me as he spoke, "Captain Ral. This is Lt. Commander Kerken in communications."

"What can I do for you, Lt. Commander?" replied a tired voice.

"I need a question answered. Have there been any recent security breaches in the engineering sections?"

The security officer livened. "No, I don't believe so. Give me a minute and I'll verify for you."

Ensign Bennick stared down at the console, half-biting his lip. The operators sitting between us appeared equally uncomfortable. At this point there was not a being in the room whose notice we had not attracted.

After a lingering silence, the security officer returned. "Negative. No breaches or alerts from any engineering sections since—well, it's been months."

"And are you able to analyze the security footage for our communication servers? That would be, oh, Deck 51 or 52."

"If you insist," he replied, before adding, "Is there something I should be concerned about, Lt. Commander?"

"Not at all, Captain Ral. I'm only being thorough."

After another long pause, he said, "All clear. In fact, no one's accessed that room since last week."

I paused. Kerken had a satisfied look on his face. "No one?" I said. "Not even—"

"Thank you, Captain," Kerken interrupted. "I will call again if I need anything further." He leaned forward and cut the transmission. "Well then, Crewman. I trust your suspicions are quelled."

"Just the opposite. If no one's accessed the server room in a week, that means—"

"Crewman Wilpress—"

"—that means the logs have been altered, sir! Our servers undergo maintenance inspections every thirty-six hours. They should show—"

"Crewman _Wilpress!_ " Kerken shouted, silencing me at last. More calmly, he continued, "Return to your station immediately or be charged with insubordination."

My eyes flickered to Bennick, his mouth for once firmly shut. He shook his head warily. I recoiled to my console. Before replacing my headset over my ears, I heard Kerken order the operator to begin the diagnostic.

The call to security affirmed my suspicion that a simple malfunction was not to blame. Navy protocol mandated routine inspections for all engineering systems: once a 36-hour cycle for communications hardware. If our servers had gone unmonitored for a week, as the security officer indicated, this meant either gross negligence on part of the entire engineering department, or that the access logs had been wiped—and if our perpetrator managed to wipe the logs, the security footage was likely tampered with as well.

I pulled my headset off and left my station, taking a brisk walk to the exit. I made it halfway before anyone noticed.

"Crewman Wilpress, where do you think you are going?" Kerken called. "Crewman!"

I sprinted the rest of the way into the passage, around the corner, and into a turbolift. The doors slid closed behind me; without time to glance back at any hypothetical pursuers.

The lift crawled downward to the engineering section. At this point the only way to justify insubordination of this magnitude and protect myself from Kerken's threats of court-martial was to prove myself right.

My technical background afforded knowledge of Imperial systems; but my brief tenure as a technician was spent at a naval base very unlike a Star Destroyer. I was familiar at least with the basic infrastructure and compartments from schematics; beyond that I was lost.

I stepped off the lift just as a technician charged through my path. Despite whatever structural dissimilarity, the deck was busy as any engineering section, full of the murmurings of machine and man. The first room I passed appeared to be relay equipment monitoring, which meant the relays were nearby and, accordingly, the servers. The liveliness proved advantageous; each of the several technicians I encountered in the passages loped by without acknowledgment. The occasional guard I passed offered no greater consideration.

I weaved through the passages, mapping the area so as to avoid revisiting the same ground, until reverberated the clear thrum of a server room. Around the corner, along an immense passageway, server rooms on either side were identified by which decks they serviced: ours was the second to last.

As I pulled the code cylinder from my tunic, I noticed the door was left unlocked. A clatter down the passageway drew my attention—a stormtrooper, rifle in hand, rounded the corner. Upon spotting me he startled, and called out to an unseen companion: "She's down here!"

I hit the door controls and dashed inside. My only hope now was catching the criminal red-handed—if his access to the server was by remote, my opportunity to investigate had passed. The servers were stacked horizontally across the room, glowing blue and white; each row was labeled in small writing.

I rushed down the length of the room, skimming the rows for anything amiss, glancing at the labels periodically. Already I heard the guards entering behind me, pushing me faster along. Nearly at the end of the room, I glimpsed a group of people between the stacks.

Indeed the network was being tapped. A technician squatted in the aisle, leaning over a portable console, connected to the server by cable. Overlooking him stood two officers: Grand Admiral Thrawn turned to face me; the other, bearing the insignia of a captain, did as well.

"Hello, Crewman Wilpress," greeted Thrawn. His composure, as at our first meeting, did not falter.

His gaze, contemplating mine, scattered my thoughts. "Admiral— I didn't, I—"

The other officer furrowed his brow. "What is this? I told the commander we weren't to be disturbed."

Something seized my arm—the guards had caught up.

"Sorry about this, sir. We'll take her from here," said the stormtrooper who grasped my arm. Still I was too stunned to react.

The Admiral watched passively as they escorted me away.

x

My mind attained no rest in the _Chimaera_ 's brig. The bare cell, darkened in red evening lighting, neither offered physical comfort.

What could have inspired senior officers to hijack a database server pestered my thoughts; treachery was inconceivable. Yet, had they wished merely to access the communications network privately, far simpler means were available. This case went beyond simple explanations. I sensed the Grand Admiral was far from all he appeared to be.

That his covert activities once again involved me exceeded the likelihood of happenstance; but the logic behind these events eluded me.

Had the perpetrators included anyone but the Commander of the Fleet, my insubordination would no doubt have been disregarded and I would presently be receiving commendations for exposing a traitor. Instead—I and the interior of this cell were going to become intimate with one another over the next few weeks.

Voices and footsteps indicated activity outside my cell. The door opened and let in Ensign Bennick, removing his cap as he descended the short stairs. "Five minutes," said one of the guards, and the door shut.

I lowered my head. He fidgeted with his cap, turning it over in his hands. Ordinarily, Bennick presented a sunny and boyish countenance unbefitting an officer of the Seventh Fleet. Now, his frown mimicked those of his uncommonly stern colleagues.

"They are talking about a demotion, back down to crewman third-class."

"Oh dear, after I climbed so far," I said dryly.

"Iszafred—please. This is a serious matter. Insubordination, abandoning your post, trespassing into restricted areas. This could be grounds for prison."

My posture straightened. "Is that part of the discussion?"

He frowned. "No—but it could be. What the hell were you thinking, anyway? You went through all this to prove a point?"

"To stop whoever was messing with our system! And I was right by the way—I bet they didn't put that in the report."

He raised his brow incredulously.

"Grand Admiral Thrawn was there—and some captain and a technician," I said, before he asked. "The tech was probably helping them navigate the network. He had a console wired into the server for our deck."

"That—are you certain it was the Admiral?"

"He's fairly difficult to mistake."

"Whatever they were doing there, which I doubt either of us are cleared to know, you still disobeyed orders and abandoned your post. You will be court-martialed, Iszafred. You could be held in detention for a month—"

The cell door opened behind him. A pair of stormtroopers appeared, framed in the light of the passage. The first descended toward me while the other stopped halfway down the stair.

He said to Bennick, "Sorry for the interruption, sir. We have orders to release the crewman immediately."

The other unshackled the tracking bracelet I had been fitted with upon being detained.

"What?" Bennick said. "Who authorized this?"

"Not sure. Our order came direct from the Chief Master-at-arms," he replied. "We'll escort you out now, sir."

They walked me out first, flanked by either soldier, Bennick trailing behind us. At the end of the passage, an officer was poised to intercept us. When we reached the guard station, he looked down his nose at me. "Well, crewman, it appears you have friends in high places."

The guard at the security console handed him a pouch, which he glanced into before relinquishing to me. "Your confiscated effects—one code cylinder, one belt, four hairpins, and a personal datapad."

"Thank you, sir," I said, immediately emptying the pouch and restoring the items to their appropriate places on my person.

"And," he said, sighing, as he pulled a datacard from his breast pocket and placed it in my hand. "I'm told you have new orders."

"Sergeant," Bennick spoke up, still with urgent curiosity. "Might I ask who authorized Crewman Wilpress's release?"

"I've no clue who was involved in the decision. The order was signed by Commander Faro."

"The XO? Really?"

"If you don't believe me—"

"No, Sergeant, that's all right."

As their banter continued, I took the occasion to slip away into an open lift. I glimpsed Bennick's face as he looked about to see where I had gone, just before the lift closed and lurched downward.

I breathed deeply and leaned back against the wall of the lift. Perhaps it was true as the sergeant said; I had friends in high places. Whether or not his allusion was meant to be specific, I knew of only one acquaintance capable of granting such a pardon. It seemed, contrary to all my presumptions, the Grand Admiral was not finished with me.

Curious about these supposed new orders, I stuck the card the guard turned over into my datapad. They were, in a way, new orders—however, not the sort I expected: a note, issued again by Commander Faro, relieved me indefinitely from my duties as comms operator. This was likely at Lt. Commander Kerken's insistence; perhaps a payoff to gratify his vengeance against an insubordinate.

For his part, mystery yet burned as to Grand Admiral Thrawn's conduct. He was doomed from the moment he involved me; when the truth was kept from me there was little I would not do to satiate my curiosity.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

News of a hyperspace jump woke me. Nyree, retired to our berth after watch, muttered to Bria about orders she received for a route calculation. I glanced at the clock—barely three hours of sleep, and many more until morning.

"Where to?" Bria asked.

"Relgim Sector. Someplace called Djaeth."

She pronounced it as all foreigners did, slurring the vowels, hardening the consonants, but the name jarred me awake just the same.

Bria sighed. "Never heard of it."

I waited until both women left before climbing down from my rack and dressing. Despite my late night, and the late morning my furlough would allow, I was agitated and could not rest. At our position, we could reach Djaeth within the day or the next. Whether I would walk its soil or breath its air or even descry the little globe through a viewport made no difference. Djaeth was home, the nexus from which all else extended, a calm heart to the unfathomable chaos of the galaxy. An old poet said, "Through sentiment or anguish, our birthplace will forever strain our hearts."

While roaming the passageways I left my tunic undone and tucked my hat in my pocket, as we dressed off-duty on the _Dagger_ , but had yet to discover if said informality was tolerated aboard the flagship; not since my transfer had I wandered outside of berthing during regular hours and I decided to attend breakfast.

Suspicion over the Empire's unexpected interest my homeplanet, and frankly about the Grand Admiral himself, persisted. The question entered my mind whether my transfer to the _Chimaera_ , coinciding with the desertion on the _Stormhawk_ , was not arranged by Grand Admiral Thrawn personally. Harboring close in mind the circumstances surrounding the _hoshkith_ and our incident in the server room, as well as my speedy release from detention, I no longer disregarded such a plot.

That morning I passed the public archive: four computer terminals tucked in an alcove adjacent to the mess hall. Had anyone else lingered nearby, I would have continued down the passage. Instead, I indulged my curiosity.

Despite my respectable intentions, unease compelled me to act with stealth. Anyone glimpsing my search for "Chiss" or "Imperial navy+Thrawn" could draw any variety of conclusions, indecent or otherwise. I chose one of the inner terminals and hesitated before inserting my code cylinder—security intel recorded and monitored all terminal entries, but surely harmless research on the fleet commander would go unnoticed. I ducked my head at clatter in the passage: a pair of off-duty troopers prattled to each other and walked by. I downloaded the first several documents and moved on to breakfast.

The lower mess deck swarmed with bodies chowing or waiting for service. In line with the other late-comers, I examined my finds from the public archive. The first article consisted of no more than trivialities and the second identified its contents as unverified stories, but the information captivated me fully. Once receiving my plate, I continued reading in a distant seat at the empty end of the mess hall, before my solitude was disturbed.

A familiar and unwelcome face appeared across the table. Ensign Bennick.

"Good morning, Iszafred."

He sat down. I carried on with my meal.

Most times it was the enlisted violating the unspoken social divide between officers and non-commissions. Though his advances were oftentimes unsettling, his demeanor overall was friendly and not always so obnoxious; and twice already had his affinity paid off when I arrived late for watch. Bennick was a well-liked officer—and so it puzzled me when he continued to pursue my attention, when plenty crewmen and officers alike would have better welcomed his friendship.

"What have we here?" He placed a finger on my datapad lying open and spun it around; I grabbed it back, but not swiftly enough to stop him from glimpsing the text. "The Chiss Ascendancy. Researching our Admiral-of-the-Fleet?"

"I was curious. I've never seen anyone like him."

"That's because they prefer not to be seen. They're like ghosts. I heard Thrawn's the only one that's ever left the planet."

"That seems unlikely. Aren't there any officers you can sit with, Bennick?"

"None as enjoyable as you," he smiled. "So—what sort of world does the blue devil hail from?"

I ate with one hand and scrolled through the documents with the other. "Descriptions only say it's a frozen tundra. I can not imagine why anyone would remain on such a planet."

"Explains why he's so cold-blooded."

A shadow appeared at my side; I turned to face the black gunbelt and sidearm of an officer. Lieutenant Commander Tiege, my escort to the Admiral's suite several nights before, loomed over our table, expressionless, arms crossed stiffly behind his back. Bennick glanced at me, questioning Tiege's purpose and likely recalling our earlier association.

"Lieutenant Commander. May I help you with something?" he asked with a glimmer of mockery.

"I’ve come for Crewman Wilpress, actually,” replied Tiege, and reverted his attention to me. “The Master Chief requires your presence."

"Master Chief?” I repeated. This was a lie, albeit an unexpected one. “What for?"

"I did not stop and ask for details. Come, I doubt you have a more important commitment this morning."

"Well, I’ve just started breakfast—"

"Straight away, Crewman."

I sighed through my nose and replied, “Yes, sir.” I shoved my tray across to Bennick as I stood. He eyed me curiously, searching for an explanation—I only shrugged.

Tiege preceded me out of the mess hall, arms folded formally, as if he paraded before the Emperor's court and not a body of enlisted personnel. Crewmen lingering at the door sneered as we turned down the passage toward the turbolifts.

The unnerving similarities to my and the Lt. Commander’s last meeting did not escape my notice. Undoubtedly he now retrieved me for the same purpose. This subterfuge the Grand Admiral insisted on escaped my comprehension and appreciation; I enjoyed even less than the first time around being pulled from my affairs at his leisure.

I corrected my uniform as we walked: I tugged my cap down on my head, dusted and straightened my tunic, and attentively fastened each button. The Grand Admiral had dwelled in my thoughts since our acquaintance. I shivered now at the prospect of facing him once more.

The lift doors closed us in. Tiege inserted his code cylinder and pressed the keys for the restricted upper levels: the command decks. Any doubt of our destination now vanished. Apprehension pounded in my chest. I assumed my usefulness to the Admiral had expired at our previous interview, an affair which in itself I failed to comprehend. Perhaps I owed this summons to my conduct the day before regarding the database server: an apology, or explanation, or reprimand.

We reached our destination on Upper Deck One. The doors released and Tiege hastened through them; I strained to match my pace. My attention wandered, clouded with the nervous speed of my thoughts, but as I refocused I caught Tiege grimacing at me. He snapped back to the front of him. I gathered he remained uninformed as to what brought a crewman twice to the fleet commander's quarters—lurid conclusions, I imagined, ran through his mind.

Like the night before last, the cabin door was unguarded. Tiege wasted no time in fulfilling his orders and departing. He pressed the wall-comm to announce our arrival, "Lieutenant Commander Tiege here, with Crewman Wilpress," then turned, scowled, and retreated down the passage.

The door to the suite released, looking into a darkened and empty foyer. No gray little alien, nor anyone else, greeted me. I entered and convulsed as the door sealed behind me. Beyond the foyer an open door led into the Grand Admiral's office. I took a sedative inhalation and progressed to the inner chamber.

Unlike my first visit, the office now was well-lit: the two red lamps on either side of the viewport, each collector's piece along the walls illuminated. Grand Admiral Thrawn sat at his desk, alone this time, penning into a datapad. I waited in the doorway. Without pausing his work, he beckoned me with his unengaged hand.

Uncertainty weighed on my steps; but I trod more attentively. The office was unarranged for a meeting: a bridge readout hovered against the bulkhead, divulging restricted information; files possibly above my clearance sat on the desk; and a door left open exposed a dark passage, through which I peaked another open doorway—the Grand Admiral's quarters, I presumed, supposing even his kind needed somewhere to eat and sleep. An addition to the room attracted my notice as well: on a long table to my right, amid a wooden vase and a clay sculpture, a jewelry stand displayed the distinctive _hoskith_ beads. A place of honor, or a trophy cabinet.

The Admiral glanced up as I approached his desk. "Please, sit. I'll only be a moment longer."

Again his low, gentle tone impressed me. I sat and studied him from the corner of my eye. As far back as enlistment I had heard rumors about the conqueror of Batonn, the alien military prodigy making waves in Imperial command, but no reliable descriptions—and since, only second-hand accounts from which to speculate. Never had I imagined the architect of such pitiless military strategy to prove soft-spoken and cordial, poised and patient.

As he lifted a mug—glass, like the kind I presented several nights ago—its bitter fragrance wafted past me. His color, blue as the dawn, previously offended my human senses; his red eyes distressed mine. Now, observing him in the light, no longer surprised by his vibrant skin, I saw him clearly. He emerged handsomer: vivid features, intense brow, a sharp mouth and jaw; his features at once rigid and smooth, like sculpted marble.

The Grand Admiral sighed as he put the datapad away in a drawer. He took a last sip before replacing his mug on its coaster and pushing it aside. My attention recentered; my pulse rose. "I was surprised to learn Wilpress is not your birth name," he said.

"No, sir. I mean—yes. It is not."

The gray alien—Rukh, as he was called—appeared from behind me with a trolley bearing covered dishes and a glass teapot.

I struggled to form words, preoccupied by the escalating unorthodoxy of the meeting. "My grandmother—Wilpress is my grandmother's maiden name. She was Corellian," I explained. "I adopted it during enlistment. I wanted something more—well, less—"

"Ethnic?" the Admiral suggested.

Rukh placed a tiered tray on the desk between us and proceeded to decorate it with tea-sandwiches and fruit slices. He placed a pair of cloth napkins and skewer-like utensils on the topmost tier.

"Are you hungry?" asked the Admiral. He unfolded a napkin and laid it over his lap. "Don’t be shy. I understand Lt. Commander Tiege interrupted your lunch."

"Um—thank you, sir." I did the same with my napkin and, with one of the skewers, took a tea-sandwich.

Rukh filled the Admiral's mug, steam rising and refreshing the air with its pungence. The tea was an unusual alien blend—I struggled not to choke on the barky flavor.

Rarely did I fear authority; but never had I been alone in the company of an admiral whose responsibilities so far exceeded my own, whose accomplishments I could never aspire to match, and who I adequately respected. My parents, my school teachers, ministers, drill sergeants, officers, all failed to truly intimidate. I accepted each scolding without belittling myself; but here, I withered before Thrawn's gentleness. In short—I feared him.

He finished a sandwiches, sipped his tea, and dabbed his mouth before resuming the inquiries. I ate only as much as he did out of respect, and embarrassment at eating over my lap.

"What brought you to enlistment, Crewman Wilpress?" the Admiral asked just as I sipped my tea; the liquid went down with a particular bite.

"Um—excuse me, sir," I said with a cough. I placed the cup in its saucer, ruminating in the seconds before I looked up. Borne from my respect for the Admiral was a desire to please him; I wished to say whatever he wished to hear. "When I enlisted, I felt—obligated, to repay all the good our Empire has done." I had recited something similar during an interview years ago.

"What precisely is it the Empire has done for you?"

They hadn't asked that question during the interview. "Well—really, it's what the Empire has done for my people. The Jedi terrorized our planet during the Clone War. We had no representation in the Senate, yet they considered our home their claim. They used Djaeth as a staging point for some attack or invasion. They occupied our cities and seized government property and the larger private farms for their own use. They planned to use Relgim, a neighboring planet, but it was on the wrong side of the sun that time of year. Lucky us." The Admiral remained silent—he expected me to continue.

"They launched their transports from crop fields outside the capital and destroyed the topsoil. They never landed the Star Destroyers but they brought them low in the atmosphere. You could see them from miles away. It was late summer, dry, right before harvest, and the fields lit up when the engines ignited. The fire didn't take long to spread through the province. They destroyed everything—and then they went back to making as if we didn't exist."

His face, his movements, obscured his inner workings; he was unreadable as stone. I had nothing more to embellish my narrative but sensed the Admiral was unsatisfied with my recital.

"There is no need to convince me of your patriotism, Crewman," he said, "nor of your merit as a serviceman. That you have already proven."

This insinuation, I assumed, meant to affirm my suspicions about his business in the database servers; but, wary of laying accusations, I asked, "How so?"

"I have ascertained your willingness to circumvent orders for the Empire's benefit and, moreover, that your reasoning skills outrival those of your peers—and a number of your superiors."

I questioned my hearing, sure I misunderstood him. "Most officers do not praise insubordination."

His head inclined, folded hands concealing the lower half of his face. "Under justifiable conditions, you understand."

Those conditions being the orders defied were not his; I understood. "You were behind infiltrating the communications database, then?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Simply to test me?"

"That was not the primary objective, nor the one Captain Pellaeon and his technician were informed of. Our goal was to test methods which would mask an outgoing transmission to communications and security."

"Then I impeded the experiment."

"Not necessarily. We succeeded in transmitting a short message to an associate on Coruscant. Had you not been on watch during the test, I suspect our presence would have gone totally unnoticed. Anyone with engineering access and enough time between patrols could do the same."

"Do you suspect someone has?"

"We will discuss that soon enough. First, I would like to hear how you concluded the servers were being infiltrated." He settled in his chair and closed his eyes, elbows rested at his sides, hands folded in a contemplative steeple. "From the beginning."

My eyes fell to the surface of the desk. "Well—I overheard Lieutenant Commander Kerken behind mention a malfunction. A console behind me lost connection with the server. The operator stated she received error messages indicating her access code was already in use. However, after retrying the code several times the error messages began to vary—that was the first red flag. From what the operator described, nothing was done differently and yet the computer changed its behavior. Something—someone—had to alter the response. Access codes are unique to each console and submit automatically with an administrator's login. Otherwise the entire 350-character key must be input manually. Kerken thought it must be a bug and ordered a diagnostic. I suggested the console could have been hijacked by a remote source. He said a security breach was impossible. There was a—heated debate. He ordered me to return to my station and—I believe you know the rest."

"Is that all?" he asked; he remained still, eyes closed. "You were willing to disobey orders on speculation?"

Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. "No, I apologize. That wasn't all. Kerken called security to confirm there were no relevant breaches that day. A security captain reported our server room had last been accessed a week prior, but that was impossible. Nonessential systems undergo inspection every thirty-six hours. It would be incredibly unusual for servers to go so long without being looked over by one person or another. I figured the logs were wiped, further supporting my theory about an infiltrator. That's when I decided to—wait," I stopped. "Then it was you who wiped the logs."

His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, before he sat upright and recentered himself at his desk. "Not personally, but yes, I issued the order. I left various hints, as a real infiltrator might, but do not blame yourself for overlooking most of them. Your time and resources were limited."

"Is there a real infiltrator?"

The Admiral paused; his meditation was just long enough to intrigue me. "Everything we discuss here remains confidential."

"Of course, sir."

"Doubtless you've heard of the lieutenant and stormtrooper who hijacked a supply ship from the Star Destroyer _Stormhawk_ ," said the Admiral, swiping his hand across his desk to activate the holoprojector.

"Only hearsay."

Two holographic portraits appeared between us. The first a thin, crooked-nosed naval officer. Beside his likeness were listed personal details: Russef, Jhe, 1LT; 17 BFE, Coruscant; 1.85 m; 76 kg. The other was a young stormtrooper, barely an adult: Caide, Cyrus, PV2; 10 BFE, Ord Mantell; 1.77 m; 70.5 kg.

"Study them well. One must know his enemy."

"Sir?" I asked dumbly, looking down from the deserters' features to Admiral Thrawn's, illuminated in the glow of the hologram.

"Do you not wish to join the investigation?" he asked.

In his portrait, Private Caide was shaven bald, a ruddy complexion; his eyes stared anxiously ahead. The eyes of a callow enlistee. "Respectfully, sir, such an assignment would be unorthodox, to say the least, for a crewman. I boarded your ship less than a month ago—and this is only my second tour. Even on Belderone I wasn't anything but a junior technician."

"It is not your rank or service record that interests me, Crewman. These fugitives have intimate knowledge of Imperial military tactics and protocol. The _unorthodox_ will be to our advantage."

"Even so, I can't fathom what I have to contribute."

"I have concluded Lieutenant Russef and Private Caide are travelling with a Djaethi native. We tracked the supply freighter stolen from the _Stormhawk_ to Borgo Prime, where a strike team found their hideout freshly abandoned."

"That's where the prayer beads came from."

"Precisely."

The room fell silent as the image consolidated in my mind, the lieutenant, the stormtrooper, on Borgo Prime with a Djaethi, when a thought occurred to me. "Sir," I asked, "is this not a job for military intelligence? A specialized task force including yourself and Major Griston should be reserved for more—valuable targets."

He stared into my face, yet without regarding me, somehow distant. I knew at once this went beyond a case of desertion.

"Before he left," said the Admiral, "Lieutenant Russef took, among other files, a souvenir from the security department. Programs belonging to a clearance code generator."

"Do we know what he plans to do with them?"

"I have ruled out personal profit. Either he has taken it as insurance in case of recapture or with more sinister motives." He stood and strolled toward the _hoshkith_ beads, hung in their display case against the wall. "Crewman, is there any reason a representative of Djaeth would wish to harm the Empire?"

"No, sir. The Djaethi government fully acknowledges Imperial sovereignty," I said; then, realizing the implications of his question, I added, "My people have nothing but the utmost respect for the Emperor's regime. The insurgency is less prominent on Djaeth than anywhere in a five-sector radius, I guarantee that."

The Admiral turned his head to analyze me; distressed by his gaze, I looked away. "Are you really so certain, Crewman?"

I said nothing; I could not honestly swear I never witnessed contempt for the Empire on my homeworld. My silence affirmed his doubt.

The Admiral turned back to contemplate the prayer beads. "You said yourself beads of this kind are reserved for clergymen. Is the Djaethi government not a theocracy?"

"It is, sir, but the actions of one clergyman do not condemn the government in whole, if he is a clergyman at all. There are a number of probable scenarios which might explain the _hoshkith_."

"I am aware of the probable scenarios," he replied, lapsing into his chair, "but we must prepare for all possibilities. Do you agree?"

His overtones were not lost on me. "I assure you my loyalties are with the Empire—to the end," I said. "You intend to travel to Djaeth, then?"

"Yes, attended by Major Griston and the regional governor—and yourself, of course, as translator."

"Many Djaethi speak Basic, sir, especially any officials receiving a Grand Admiral. There should be no need for a translator."

"No need—if we wish for solely the Djaethi's compliance. However, our knowledge is minimal. We require their respect and obedience if we intend to fully investigate all leads on the planet. I require a translator."

I nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Good. We depart for Djaeth tomorrow at 0900 from Bay 17-S. Any further questions, Crewman?"

"No, sir."

"Dismissed."

By the time I returned to the mess hall, all the tables were emptied and the galley-window locked up. Ensign Bennick and my uneaten food tray were gone. The corner sabacc table alone remained occupied, diminished to three players.

The hours passed achingly slow. I fidgeted restlessly and overanalyzed my thoughts, concluding my anxiety stemmed from the worry of an assignment far above my training, rather than the anticipation of returning home. My legs shook wherever I dwelled like the first tremors of an earthquake. Before climbing into my rack for the night I took a dose of relaxants, stashed in a pouch under my mattress, reserved for occasions like these.

Bria reappeared from the head as I prepared a knapsack of necessities from my locker. She had nearly laid down when she observed me stuffing a comb into the bag. "Going somewhere?" she asked.

"A few days shore leave," I replied without pause.

"On Jaeth?"

"Djaeth—yes."


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

        By the time I woke, the Star Destroyer Chimaera was in orbit above my homeplanet.

        At an hour to 0900 I sat alone atop an empty shipping crate in Docking Bay 17-2, my knapsack on the deck beside me, watching a band of technicians equip the shuttle. There were two identical shuttles; a team of logistics officers and technicians were loading crate after crate into the back of the shuttle at the far side of the bay.

        The docking bay doors did not face planetside as I would have liked—I faced instead a blanket of stars, blue-tinted by the energy shield; but I knew the contours of my planet well enough to submit to imagination: a perfect teal-blue orb, blemished by a large southern continent, and a sister to the northeast, disjoined by an oblong green-watered gulf. 

        A metallic screech jarred me from my daydream; the loading door at the center of the bay was opening. Half a dozen stormtroopers entered, flanking a pushcart of more cargo; a group of three officers followed, Admiral Thrawn distinguishable among them, even at a distance. I vaulted upright, disinterested in letting the officers see my station among the shipping crates.

        They stood together in conversation with the deck officer. As I advanced across the bay I recognized Major Griston among the officers; the third was a young man I assumed to be the governor mentioned the night before. Thrawn was first to notice my approach. He dismissed the deck officer and turned to face me; the other officers acknowledged me in turn.

        "Crewman Wilpress, you're early. Excellent," he greeted.

        "Good morning, Grand Admiral. Major Griston." I looked at the governor, who rectified his posture in response.

        "Oh, of course," he muttered and offered his hand. "Lieutenant Governor Vin Arlok. How do you do?" 

        I accepted the handshake, unaccustomed to the civilian gesture, and stated my name. " _Lieutenant_ Governor?" I asked, glancing at the Admiral.

        "Yes," Arlok answered. "As I was just explaining to Major Griston, Moff Ondeyo is detained overseeing the construction of a new base on Ord Trasi. She sends her regards. If she could be here herself, I assure you she would."

        "God knows where those contractors would be without her," muttered Griston.  She turned away toward our shuttle.

        "The process is not so simple—" said Arlok; but the Major already paced away toward a group of technicians beneath the shuttle's docking ramp. He turned to the Admiral instead. "There is still much administrative work to oversee and finalize. It is a governor's sworn duty—"

        "You needn't convince me, Lieutenant Governor," said Thrawn. "Now, I suggest we follow Major Griston's lead. The days here are only 18 hours and it is already noon in the capital."

        The shuttle sat eight passengers—myself, the three officers, and four of the Governor's stormtrooper bodyguards. The rest rode in the cargo shuttle. Whatever Admiral Thrawn's intention was for all that equipment, he did not say; what did he hope to find down there, apart from farms and churches and simplistic sons of pilgrims?

        I studied him down the aisle as he had a word with the pilots in the cockpit. Arlok sat next to me, troopers on either side of us; the arrangement was duplicated across the aisle, vacant one seat for the Admiral.

        The engines groaned to life as he strapped in beside Major Griston, and the shuttle started takeoff. 

        "I confess I don't know much about this planet _Jaeth_ ," said Arlok as we glided out of the docking bay and into the smooth surface of space. "There was minimal detail in Moff Ondeyo's records—tax statements and censuses and the like. But I understand Crewman Wilpress is our resident expert. What can you tell us about this Archminister Gelejh we're meeting?"

        I peered up, surprised to find myself the subject of conversation, and under scrutiny by all present. I stammered, "Gelejh—?" In truth, as both citizen and expatriate I had avoided Djaethi politics; but as Archminister of over twenty years, Gelejh was perhaps Djaeth's only notable public figure. I struggled to sound impartial: "Gelejh is—well, he's popular. He's been in office for decades now. And if you're meeting with the Archminister you'll likely meeting the entire High Ministry—those are nine clergymen who—"

        Arlok waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, we know all that from official records. Tell us what sort of man he is. How will he respond to us?"

        Thrawn interjected, "What the Lieutenant Governor means to say is, how can we earn their cooperation?"

        "Well—" I paused to consider. "If they are as wise as I always assumed they were when I was young, they will be rightfully suspicious. The Empire hasn't visited Djaeth in years."

        Arlok grimaced at this suggestion; I shifted to Griston and Thrawn, under whose stoic gazes I operated more comfortably, and continued, "They respect the chain of command, but we favor our own people. They may expect a tradeoff in return for aid—aggression will repel them. Civility will make them civil in return."

        The shuttle was void of conversation for the remaining flight; 

        I cast my gaze continually in Admiral Thrawn's direction across the aisle. He remained inhumanly still throughout our descent to the planet, arms rested at his sides, hands spread on either thigh, boots firmly planted on the deck; I glanced away each time his eyes shifted, but always my attention revolved toward him. 

        Before we had yet entered the upper atmosphere the rest of our flight would not be as pleasant. It was early spring over our continent, a time of cleansing we called _ahnvair_ , the season of the brother Gods Edasos and Échaul, when the rain came down heavy and persisted for weeks on end. The shuttle rattled through dark clouds. The troopers' armor clattered against their seats; Arlok took in and out a heavy breath; only Thrawn seemed to be entirely undisturbed.

        We alighted on a rooftop overlooking the capital. I was surprised to hear no rain pelting the shuttle—despite damp air and a murky sky, our surroundings were dry when we stepped out. The bitter wind pierced even my wool uniform. 

        Nolghesch was nowhere near as large as it appeared to me as a child. Having now seen the bottomless strata of Coruscant, the neverending streams of traffic, streets which reached past the horizon, what a paltry town Nolghesch appeared to be, barely a city at all. Nearly all its border was viewable from this rooftop—to the southeast expanded the Qiphith Sea, as gray and dark as the sky above; in the distant north were the shrublands and treetops.

        "Awfully quiet city," remarked Major Griston. Without speeders overhead, crowds of billions, trains, construction, generators, it was; the silence almost pained my ears.

        In the past I prided myself to be Djaethi, to be a _Hoshe'ad'nodth_ ; now I shrunk away from the humble landscape of my beginnings. I could not imagine how the Grand Admiral and our companions disparaged this miserable planet.

        Beyond the far end of the roof, across the empty sky of the Plaza ad Vhiradve, peaked the three white steeples of the Hoshe Temple, the mother-church of Djaeth; to the west was the Ecclesiastical Library. We were atop the Hall of Glory, our statehouse, the largest building in the city and the center of all political action on Djaeth. 

        While a pair of purple-robed curates greeted Lt. Governor Arlok and Grand Admiral Thrawn, another Imperial craft was landing at the other side of the roof. It was not, to my surprise, the cargo shuttle from the _Chimaera_ 's docking bay. The others ignored these proceedings, busied by the Djaethi dignitaries, but I watched closely as a dozen navy troopers unloaded from the shuttle, headed by a stormtrooper captain.

        Our party moved ahead before I could see more, led by the curates into the building below. A spiral stairwell led us down several floors before one of the curates opened the door to a cold, glimmering hallway. The dignitaries preceded us, shadowed by our stormtrooper escort and the Lieutenant Governor's guard.

        They lead us through long, vaulted corridors, rowed with tracery windows. This grand interior recalled forgotten memories of my childhood. I had grown too accustomed to the drab interiors of Imperial bases and warships; the polished mineral-stone and bright mural ceilings nearly burdened my sight. 

        As we migrated deeper into the halls, I fell behind in our procession and observed that a third curate had joined us at our rear. When exactly he slipped behind us eluded me; no doubt the curates were on orders to monitor us closely. I did not blame them. We were strangers taking an unprompted interest in their planetary affairs. 

        Our party was consigned to a spare chamber containing only a heavy stone table, dusty tapestry, and bookshelf. The curates announced that, "The High Ministers would be with us momentarily," and left. Lieutenant Governor Arlok took a seat with a noisy exhalation. Thrawn stood at the room's only window, looking onto the busy Plaza ad Vhiradthe; I joined him. 

        Among the traffic of the plaza were pedestrians and automobiles, as well as simpler vehicles which remained popular on Djaeth, rickshaws and carriages, barrows and pushcarts. A long-nose bull pulling a wagon jounced by, reigned unsteadily by a messy-haired boy. A trio of young women in their spring cloaks strolled in the opposite direction, tightening their collars against the wind. A woman in all black carried a basket of hens in one arm and a child in the other. The agricultural simplicity of Djaethi culture permeated even the most metropolitan district of our capital.

        "Will you be visiting family here?" asked Admiral Thrawn.

        "Will there be time?"

        "I should think so, once your services today are rendered. Is your home far?"

        "No," I said. "More or less a province away. An hour by train."

        He nodded and we watched the plaza. A breakage in the clouds released sunlight on the city, beautifying a line of roofs in white and gold. 

        "I hadn't even considered it, honestly," I said. "Going home. It's been ages. If I see them, it will be difficult to leave again."

        "You will bear the struggle well," replied Thrawn, "even if you are not certain of your will, I am." His scrutiny, examining some substance within, did not leave my face. I turned to the window once more, his intense stare bespelling heat to my cheeks and laboring my breath.

        The ministers kept us waiting just long enough to try our patience; Major Griston paced around the room; Arlok writhed in his seat; the troopers fretted from one foot to the other in their stations by the door. Thrawn only shifted his attention between the window and his peers, though what I learned of him this indicated alertness more than frustration.

        A curate entered the room to relieve our suspension. We were ushered to an adjacent room, which revealed itself to be the council chambers, yet void of any councillors: twice the size of our previous room, with three enormous windows, a broad table separated from us by a platform, a white cloth draped centrally, embroidered with the gold triangles of Djaeth. A marble podium below marked the respondent's place. Lieutenant Governor Arlok assumed this position; Thrawn and I moved aside. Weapons were prohibited inside, but rather than relinquish their rifles, Major Griston and the two stormtroopers remained in the antechamber.

        Arlok rested his hands atop the podium and awaited the ministry's entrance in moderate silence. "You'd think these people would show a bit more respect for the overseer of their sector," he muttered as he straightened his sleeves.

        A door behind the council's table opened and in single-file entered the High Ministers of Djaeth, shuffling noisily their pearly gold-braided robes. As they found their seats, Arlok turned and gesticulated to Thrawn and me; just as I intended to suggest his bidding was for the Admiral, he leaned toward me and said, "I presume he requires a translation." I could not imagine what required translated, but I nevertheless strided to the podium.

        "Crewman—do you recognize any of them? Tell me which is Gelejh."

        The last to be seated, centered in the body of nine, was Archminister Gelejh, grayer and wrinklier than when I last saw him. To no significant degree did I recognize any of the lesser clergymen. As I communicated this to Arlok, the Archminister initiated the conference with no formality.

        "What brings the Empire to our humble world?" he asked in Basic.

        "Good afternoon, Ministers," Arlok began. "I am Lieutenant Governor Vin Arlok. I come on behalf of the esteemed Moff Ondeyo, governor of the Relgum sector. She regrets she is unable—"

        "We know who you and Ondeyo are," said the man at Gelejh's right. His nameplate identified him as Minister Losca. He muttered to the other councillors in Avenian, "Notice how he avoids the question."

        I whispered to Arlok, "It is best if you answer directly."

        The table's attention turned to me. "Who is this girl?" asked Gelejh.

        I glanced at Arlok, who gave no instruction. I answered in Avenian, "I am Iszafred _ad_ Sidhal, crewman of the lowest rank aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer _Chimaera_. Today I serve as translator to the Imperial delegation."

        "Sidhal," exclaimed one of the lesser ministers. "Sidhal was the last bishop of Ilan. Are you related?"

        "Yes, Your Eminence. The bishop was my grandfather, and my uncle is a parish minister."

        Arlok whispered, "Crewman! What are they saying?", but the ministers ignored him and continued in Avenian.

        Gelejh leaned forward on the table. "Ah! You are that priest's niece that renounced Djaeth and abandoned home for the Empire's navy. You shamed your family and the entirely of the _Hoshe'ad'nodtha_."

        This and similar sentiments I had heard many times as an emigrate, even before I decided to enlist; the words did not jar me. "That is a misconception, Your Eminence. By strengthening our ties to the Empire, I strengthen Djaeth. Our intention here is to illustrate to the council the Empire's many virtues."

        The ministers contemplated me, whispering to one another; before Gelejh returned to Arlok. "Go on with what you have to say, Imperial."

        Arlok cleared his throat, examining his notes, and recommenced his performance. "As I was saying, Moff Ondeyo sincerely regrets she is unable to address the High Ministry of Djaeth in person. To answer your earlier question—we are here on investigative business. The Empire as procedure does not interfere with planetary government, so long as said governments adhere to Imperial law and sovereignty. However, a matter has developed which requires our interference—" 

        "True, they do not meddle. Neither do they provide aid," said Minister Losca in Avenian.

        Another replied, "And their merchants and military vessels alike use our spacedock as they please en route to Ord Trasi, at our expense."

        As they spoke I translated for Arlok. His mouth hardened with displeasure; he ignored the interruption and continued. "A matter has developed which requires our interference here. Several months ago a pair of Imperial servicemen hijacked a freighter from a battleship of the Seventh Fleet. Grand Admiral Thrawn's hunt for these criminals has brought us to your doorstep. As courtesy, we entreat the High Ministry for its blessing and partnership in bringing these miscreants to justice."

        The ministers were quiet. Some looked to the Archminister, anticipating him to vocalize their, and my, thoughts. It was instead Minister Losca who spoke. "You think these criminals have come to Djaeth?" he asked.

        "Not as such. The trail—the investigation has led us here—" Arlok glanced down at the notes in his hand, then at myself, and over my shoulder at Thrawn. "Perhaps Grand Admiral Thrawn would better explain. He leads the current special investigation." Arlok retreated, trading the floor for a place against the windows.

        I stepped aside as the Grand Admiral assumed the podium. Much to my surprise, he bowed his head to the ministers with his hand over his diaphragm: a traditional Djaethi salute and pronounced the formal greeting, " _Shaezj'ihme adŏn_." So his claims of studying Djaethi culture were true. The greeting, despite its archaism, bemused the ministers. They had never heard an outsider speak Avenian unprompted.

        Following a long contemplation, Archminister Gelejh replied customarily, " _Vos shaezj vfee lae,_ ", reiterated by the lesser ministers. 

        Thrawn continued in Basic, his arms characteristically folded behind his back. "Thank you to Lieutenant Governor Arlok for bringing us up to speed. As the Lieutenant Governor began to say, a credit trail left by the deserter Private Cyrus Caide, along with an illegal docking citation left on an unregistered light freighter, allowed us to trace the deserters to Borgo Prime. Local authorities identified potential hideouts, including a condemned motel where a squad of stormtroopers discovered a recently deserted living space. There our specialists identified three separate DNA profiles including those of our defectors Lieutenant Russef and Private Caide. Among the abandoned supplies we discovered this." 

        From his tunic Admiral Thrawn produced a small holoprojector and placed it on the podium before him. An image of the mothwood prayer beads materialized.

        He continued, "Due to this evidence we believe the individual aiding Russef and Caide is a Djaethi native. We are here to collect information on this suspect."

        The Archminister leaned back in his chair; the ministers whispered amongst themselves. Minister Losca exclaimed, "You call a Djaethite guilty because of one prayer string? Your trail must have run cold. Your defectors might have merely planted those beads there to distract you."

        "A reasonable theory," replied Thrawn. "However, this hideout was abandoned with haste. Weapons and valuable supplies were left behind. No effort was made to scrub the scene. Planted evidence would require preparation. The deserters likely detected the police presence scouting their hideout and fled before our squad arrived. More than that, the remaining DNA profile contains at least 65% Avenian ancestry, comparable to the ancestry of modern Djaethites."

        "The council requires solid evidence of these allegations," said Gelejh. "If our experts concur with what you say, the ministry will permit full resources to your investigation."

        Losca interjected, "That will require the council's majority vote."

        "A vote is unnecessary," said one of the lesser ministers in Avenian; I translated in Thrawn's ear. "The more formalities we create, the longer these Imperial bureaucrats bother us. Let them conduct their investigation freely and begone."

        "I agree," replied Gelejh. "This is a simple matter. No vote."

        "Archminister," pleaded Losca. "Do we really wish to open our doors to the Empire and grant them authority indefinitely? Without a formal vote and decree there will not—"

        The Archminister raised his hand. Losca fell silent. "A formal decree will come once this Grand Admiral's evidence is received and reviewed by the ministry. Our terms and particulars will be discussed privately among—"

        Losca sprung from his chair. He pulled aside his robe and I scarcely realized what he drew from his belt when a red blaster bolt lit up the room. 

        I lunged toward Admiral Thrawn—an inane attempt to either shield him or knock him down. By the time I collided with the podium he was crouched safely underneath and pulled me down by the back of my tunic. More shots rang out. One of the beautiful windows cracked and shattered. A shot hit the podium above our heads and reverberated through the marble. I clung to the Admiral behind our narrow shield.

        Through the blasterfire I distinguished an outcry: " _Arre mazaeksh, ozhge!_ " 

        Death before treachery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was obsessing over minuscule details as usual. I'm not that confident in this chapter so I apologize if it's sub-par (._. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

V.

The story of Nazmith is the one of the firsts a _Hoshe'ad'nodth_ learns. As a child it is difficult to forget the imagery, whether depicted in a tapestry or storybook or pageant, of Nazmith drawing his sword across Orrared's neck. He was a priest and a warrior, a devotee of Gafeen, a veteran of forgotten battles. His military accomplishments died with Avenian society; we remembered him only by a string of tales which, for unknown reasons, were a piece of scripture.

        In the 250th Year of Sun, Orrared ruled the Yobren Domain, an ancient region of Avenia. As Domina she indulged debauchery and godlessness in her court. She lavished herself with parties and banquets and disregarded the ails of her countrymen. On the night of a blue moon she suffered a vision of her domain's destruction by blight and famine. She summoned the city's high priest, called Nazmith, and told him of her vision. Nazmith had witnessed the irreverence among Orrared's court. Only a great sacrifice would redeem their sins. He said, "Have the nobility empty their stores to the hungry of their lands and Ahnnua will protect us from this fate."

        At the chagrin of her nobles, Orrared did as commanded. Harvestime came and food was plentiful. The court's revelries continued throughout winter, soon forgetting whose hand allowed their extravagance. In the coldest months a vision of fate was again bestowed on Orrared; she dreamt that deadly frost would claim many lives in the domain. Again she called on the priest Nazmith. He told her, "Have every manor house under your rule opened to those without shelter and Edasos will protect us from this fate."

        She did as she was told, once again angering those who ruled under her. The domain was protected from winter gales which devastated neighboring states. Still visions plagued Orrared: this time of a devastating storm. Nazmith advised her to drown her sister's newborn child to appease Échaul. She at first refused. Only after days of rain and flooding did she abide. The rains stopped.

        Within weeks Orrared dreamt again—now, of her own assassination. Nazmith instructed her to create a blade and deliver it to him by hand. The greatest of the kingdom's smiths were summoned to forge a blade fit for the Gods: of iron and gold, inlaid with gemstones, a kilogram and half in weight. Orrared carried and presented the weapon to Nazmith in the city's temple over which he presided.

        He brought her to the altar and they knelt together in prayer. When the prayers ended they lit the sacrificial fire. Nazmith said, "Show me what you have made for the Gods."

        Orrared unsheathed the blade. Nazmith took it in hand, saying, "To repair your lifelong irreverence of the Gods you have sacrificed that which is not yours and which you devalue. Abandon your food stores to the hungry. Open your palaces to the masses. Drown your son as you did your nephew."

        "I will not! What God demands such a sacrifice?" Orrared shouted.

        "You did not hesitate in such sacrifices when the sacrifice was not your own. Did not your nobles empty their stores? Did not the lords open their manors? Did you not drown your sister's only son? Refuse this and your vision of assassination will be realized."

        "Let the Gods strike me down if that is so," she said.

        Nazmith replied, "It is so," and raised the golden blade against Orrared and beheaded her in the name of the Life-giving Gods.

Hidden under the podium, I opened my eyes only to see shards of the broken window piercing the carpet, before renewed blasterfire forced my eyes closed. I pressed back, expecting Admiral Thrawn at my side, but he was no longer there.

        Three rounds, high-pitched Imperial blasts, fired off close by; Losca's shooting ceased, then renewed elsewhere in the building. Major Griston hollered orders from nearby and likewise drifted away—then, only blood pounding in my ears and heavy breath.

        When my eyes opened Grand Admiral Thrawn stood over me, straightening his tunic. I rose and surveyed the room. The council table was vacated; the ministers, their chairs pushed askew, left behind only papers and a pair of eyeglasses. The podium was cracked but unbroken. Through the antechamber door Major Griston appeared with a pistol in hand.

        "Did you get him?" I asked breathlessly,

        "We're cornering him in the entrance hall." Her eyes darted around the room, and stopped on the floor behind Admiral Thrawn.

        Across the room, Lieutenant Governor Arlok was on the floor. Whenever it was he dropped, I hadn't noticed. He lay several meters away on his side, his face pressed into the floor, a blackened wound in his chest. An obscure Avenian belief held that to die facedown was to be denied entry to the next dimension. Thrawn went to him and checked for a pulse. "He's breathing," he said.

        "Medic to my location immediately," Griston said into her comm. Then many things happened at once: stormtroopers filed into the room; Thrawn touched my back as they escorted us back to the antechamber through which we entered; a medical team lifted Arlok onto a stretcher and took him away.

        Major Griston turned away and pressed a hand against her ear-comm. "Sir," she said to Thrawn, "he’s in the courtyard. Team Besh has visual but not for long. Permission to use lethal force?”

        Thrawn nodded.

        She said into the comm, “Take him down.”

        Within seconds it was finished.

        I rested at the window and listened while they contacted the _Chimaera_ and organized an investigative team. From science divisions to tactics and engineering, Thrawn asked for each officer by name. What transpired in the adjacent room still engrossed my thoughts; shock disturbed whatever use I could have served. I scarcely noticed rain pattering the window until the drops became a shower, roaring outside the walls. Those unidentified troopers on the roof, forgotten until now, were cause to think Thrawn foresaw this occasion or one like it. That single transport was not likely the extent of his precaution; but then why had he let us appear before the ministry unguarded?

        Griston disappeared from the room, gradually replaced by unfamiliar officers. The Imperials worked with remarkable efficiency as expected. Thrawn studied a datapad someone had handed him, pausing only to speak to someone at the door or issue orders which various officers repeated into their commlinks.

        He said, "Minister Losca shouted something before he pulled his weapon. I caught only the last word— _ozhge_."

        I raised my head to discover we were alone in the room. " _Arre mazaeksh, ozhge_ —death before treachery."

        "Does that phrase mean anything to you?"

        "A quote, I think. The word he used, _mazaeksh_ , is unusual. There is a religious context. Not just treachery but also blasphemy, sin, wrongdoing." I said, "Do you think that is a clue to his motives?"

        A knock at the door commanded Thrawn’s attention. A lieutenant entered and said to him, “They’re ready for you downstairs, sir.”

        He turned to me. I must have been learning his subtleties because I instantly understood his look. I followed him out of the room. Major Griston reappeared partway down the grand double staircase, donning her black dress uniform. I did not ask about our destination; but when we arrived at the ground floor and exited to the courtyard, I formed my own conclusions.

        We followed a colonnade to avoid the rain, flooding the grass and flowerbeds at our feet. Down our path a technician wheeled a gurney out through a set of doors, a telltale white shroud over its occupant. Thrawn called out to him.

        He pulled back the sheet to reveal Losca’s dead face, already losing its color, lips blue, nose bloody, dull eyes left pitilessly open. My heart wrenched. Thrawn pulled the shroud up and they took him away.

        That day was not my first picture of death, not even the gruesomest, so I cannot state simply what came over me. My thoughts were always the same looking upon a corpse: speculation on the afterlife; fear of my own death; anticipation that the man I knew in life would wake up at any moment; relief that I was still alive. Yet, a panic I had forgotten years ago pitted my stomach. Sobs crawled up my throat. Shamefully I hung my head and clasped a hand over my mouth; a whimper escaped my restraint.

        I heard the boots of my companions pivot toward me on the stone. After a moment full of my weeping, Thrawn said, "Go inside ahead of us, Major," and Griston did so.

        He allowed the weeping to continue, quiet sobs and trembling shoulders, interspersed by pathetic croaks, breaks in my defenses. The embarrassment only compounded my tears. I dared not raise my head to him; I observed only his boots and white trousers.

        He said, at last, "We will wait until you are more composed."

        I cried for an agonizing half-minute before the tears waned and I wiped my face. I raised my head when Thrawn laid his hand on my shoulder. "Come now."

        The murder scene was an ordinary parlor: soft armchairs and carpets, a fireplace and a spacious writing desk. Losca, shot from outside, had fallen just inside the door. A bloody spot marked where his nose cracked against the floor. A step further and he might have gotten away.

        "This was everything on his person?" Thrawn said at the other end of the room. He stood by a plastic-tarped table, out of style with the warm parlor, beside Major Griston and a specialist in a white jumpsuit. Several items were laid out before them.

        "Yes, sir. Looks like he wasn't quite prepared to go on the run, doesn't it?"

        "That is how it looks," said Thrawn. "Have we identified what this transponder belongs to?"

        "Presumably the speeder we found in the alley," said Griston. "I expect he had it readied after we dropped in unannounced."

        I rounded the room for a better view of the table. Among its contents was the transponder Thrawn spoke of, as well as Losca's blaster, currency both local and Imperial, scraps of paper, and other miscellanea.

        Griston pointed to one of the items. "What I really want to know is what the hell this thing is."

        "A sensor of some kind?" the specialist suggested. He held up the device; a bulky silver box with three long antennae. I recognized it instantly—one of those ancient communicators still circulating on Djaeth—but as the specialist turned it over, a big attachment and a red light on its side caught my eye.

        "It's a long-range transmitter," I said, hastening forward, "and it's still transmitting. Shut it off—that dial on the side—"

        Thrawn raised a hand. "No. Let it continue."

        "Sir, it may look like a piece of junk, but we could be transmitting these very words halfway across the galaxy."

        The specialist held the transmitter tentatively. Thrawn's hand unclipped a commlink from his belt and held it to his mouth. "Commander. Has the _Chimaera_ intercepted any outgoing transmissions since entering orbit?"

        "Yes, Grand Admiral. A handful, six to be exact, including one near the coordinates you indicated." I recognized the uniquely shrill and spirited voice of Commander Pax, head of communications aboard the flagship. "The transmission is still active, in fact. We are cutting it off as you instructed."

        "Very good. I have the source right here. Are you able to feed the message through to us down here?"

        "Of course. However—this is not audio. Not as I expected. Though, I suppose, that is to our advantage. Verbal ciphers are in my opinion much trickier to unravel. No cryptographers study them anymore—ah—excuse my rambling. What I mean to say, Grand Admiral, is the signal is a data stream."

        "All the same, Commander Pax. Send it down."

        "Yes, sir."

        Griston muttered, "You are more patient with her than I am."

        Thrawn switched on the holo-display and held the communicator upward in his palm. The data was a short code of letters and numbers, no more than a word or two, on endless repeat.

        "A distress signal," I said, "or a warning."

        Griston said, "Either way, I'm interested in finding out who the intended recipient was."

        Thrawn closed the holo-display and paused, rubbing his thumb over the edge of the commlink, before raising it once more to his mouth. "Are you still with us, Commander Pax?"

        "Yes, Grand Admiral."

        "Would we be able to trace this signal to its destination if we let it transmit?"

        There was a pause at the other end. "Theoretically, yes. Tracking is complicated by distance. The process is simple if the signal can reach the receiver on its own—but if not, the transmission is bound for a communications relay. We are able to trace as far as that relay—only with access to the relay's data can we track it further. Grand Admiral, did you say you've secured the transmission's source?"

        "Correct. Crewman Wilpress identified it for us. It appears to be an outdated communicator, conjoined with a signal booster from a larger device."

        "Oh, yes, that sort of modified tech is common out here. The people of the Outer Rim are nothing if not resourceful. Whatever it is, I'm sure I can discover more about the device once I have it hand."

        "I will have it brought to you immediately."

        The call ended and Thrawn slipped the comm back onto his belt. His eyes lingered on Major Griston before turning to me. "Crewman Wilpress, there are a number of paper documents in Minister Losca's office. I entrust you to identify those of significance. His office's financial transactions are of particular interest to me."

        Though she seemed not altogether pleased with Thrawn's orders to deliver me to the ministry offices, Griston showed me from the parlor without comment.

 

Losca's office was small and neat. In the plain outer office, the dwelling of a secretary or clerk, the cabinets were engulfed by the Trade Administration's documents. The only financial information among them appeared to be budget records and trade manifests.

        The inner office, a touch more personalized, contained only a desk, cabinet, and a delicate couch, beneath a painting of Paricol bestowing sentience on the humans. The only starkly personal item was on the desk, an image of a wife and child. In the corner, a bronze sacrificial bowl held fresh ashes, hot to touch. Perhaps his last sacrificial prayer, I thought, before I spotted an unnatural black spot in the ash. I took a pen from Losca's desk and poked at it—the object was solid. I carefully fished out a mutilated datacard.

        Though the polymer casing was melted and warped, the metallic insides gave it away. The card was beyond my ability to repair; but if Losca had attempted to destroy it, it must have contained something worthwhile.

        I tried to look around the room as Thrawn might, or as I thought he might, to no fruition. Losca must have left behind some evidence of his misdeeds, but there was nothing lying about, no bloody knife, no shocking note of confession, no hint to his motivation. When I knelt down to inspect a locked drawer in Losca's desk, I spotted a metallic sheen behind his chair. A safe-box was nailed to the floor in the inner corner of the desk. An unsophisticated keypad was the only noticeable security, but beyond my present means. If Losca separated his criminal life from his ministry, poking about here was a waste of time. Yet, I dreaded returning to Grand Admiral Thrawn empty-handed. After another futile exploration of the room, I began on the files.

        I sat at Losca's desk and flipped backwards through the Trade Administration's fiscal reports, the documents I pulled from the outer office. The patterns were easy enough to establish: weekly exports of food and derived products to neighboring systems, including the sector's capital Ord Trasi. The means of transportation were not listed; I assumed Djaethi Freight, the state-owned shipping company, cared for all exports.

        What negligible imports came into Djaeth were recorded as well: largely equipment and machinery we were ourselves unable to manufacture. The costliest purchases were made out to private vendors.

        I marked each page of any worth and copied them by a presser in the outer office, thinking as I did Thrawn could likely gain a great deal more from these same papers. I marked any anomalies in the columns of item, weight, value, origin, and destination in red ink for the Grand Admiral's convenience; the sort of time-consuming procedure I had long since deserted and which certainly no other Imperial had to put up with before.

        Within the hour Imperial personnel flooded the building. I heard them in the hall, speaking, coming and going, the clanking bootsteps of stormtroopers and those of navy jackboots as well. Ships roared overhead. Personnel landed rooftop until shuttles were landing and taking off every minute. As I was finishing with the files, someone knocked at the door of the inner office. Major Griston leaned against the doorframe. "Find anything good in here?" she asked.

        I pulled myself away from the desk. "Uh, yes, a little. We'll see if it leads anywhere."

        "A common sentiment today," she remarked. "The Grand Admiral wants to see us. Pax apparently has news already on that transmission. Bring whatever you have with you."

        I sorted the files back together and checked that the melted datacard was still in my pocket. When Griston started toward the hall ahead of me, I recalled the prize Losca had left us under his desk, and called, "Oh—wait. There's something else."

        She turned back, that perpetual grimace on her face.

        "Do you know anything about lockpicking?" I asked.

        She walked back into the inner office. "What sort of lock is it?"

        I pushed the chair away from Losca's desk and invited her behind the desk where the floor safe was visible. "Looks like a four-digit key," I said, "which we can crack if we—"

        Griston pulled out her pistol and shot once at the safe—as quickly as I leapt back the pistol was once more on her hip. A simmering cavity appeared in place of the safe-box's keypad. At first it looked like the safe was empty, but Griston squatted down and pulled out a red booklet. "That's it," she said. She flipped through it before handing it to me. "All in Djaethi."

        As she stood I thought of reminding her that Djaethi was not the name of our language—but I followed her and silently inspected the booklet instead. The notes inside, in what I came to know as Losca's handwriting, were at first everyday lists and appointments, but for less than a dozen pages at the centerfold full of nonsensical numbers and letters that could be only a cipher.

        The marble halls overflowed with Imperials. Griston led us several flights up an eastern stairwell and to the end of a long corridor. We stopped at a pair of enormous oak doors, where a guard stepped aside and let us in.

        I proceeded behind the Major into a magnificent corner apartment: a meeting room, marble floor and ceiling-high windows sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Unlike other the chambers being ransacked for evidence, the room was entirely untouched. Its bookshelves were orderly, tapestries laid smooth against the walls, and chairs placed uniformly along the carved table that ran the length of the room. At the end stood Admiral Thrawn and a man in black uniform who was saying, "…sentiments across this nation. Go to any world this underdeveloped and you could meet the same hostility. This is a rabbit hole."

        "Had he no more to hide than anyone else, Losca would not have resorted to assassination."

        "We would have a full confession by now, no doubt—" his eyes flashed to Griston as we came closer, "had the Major shot to incapacitate."

        "I did incapacitate him—by killing him," she responded.

        "Agent Laveurre," Thrawn announced, and gestured to me, "this is Crewman Wilpress, our consultant, as it were—and you are already acquainted with the Major."

        He stepped forward and shook my hand with vague scrutiny. "From tech operator to specialty consultant in just a few days," he said. An ambiguous smile shone between his dark moustache and beard. "You must be very talented indeed." He only on the precipice of middle age, withholding a youthful charm aired. His gaze shifted to Major Griston. "Good to see you, Eiona. It's been quite a while."

        Griston nodded. "Rhys."

        Thrawn gestured to a guard inside the room, who stepped out and drew the door closed behind him. We sat around the end of the table facing the room's outer corner, Agent Laveurre and Major Griston on one side and myself on the other.

        "Before we begin, sir, Wilpress has something from Losca's office," she said as Thrawn sat at the table's head.

        The files I gathered lay on the table in front of us, but when Thrawn's eyes turned on me, I reached instead for the datacard in my pocket. "This was in a sacrificial bowl behind his desk," I said. "A last minute clean-up, maybe."

His fingertips grazed mine as he took the datacard. He held it at eye level, avoiding the exposed metal innards, and studied its damaged and misshapen form. "Is this all?" he asked.

        "No, sir. That's the least of it, in fact." I opened the file before me and showed him page by page the copies of Losca's ledgers. "I identified suspicious transactions in the Trade Administration's manifests cited as maintenance and repair funds. Usually they have budgets for those things, yes? But these are case specific. It could be nothing but a change of regulation—but since you said to have my eye on finances—"

        "Very good, Crewman." He browsed the papers one by one.

        "There's more."

        "You are certainly the busy bee," said Laveurre.

        I glanced sideways at him, then at Thrawn, whose attention had not left the papers. Made nervous by his silence, I said, "Of course, I'll see that everything is digitalized for convenience."

        Thrawn's attention remained on the ledger. He stopped at a particular page, no longer grazing through the ledger entries. His eyes drooped, relaxed, how I imagined he might appear at rest, focused with a remoteness that told me he had receded from the present.

        "There are several irregular payments there I highlighted, across a four-month period beginning ten months ago. The payments are made out to Djaethi Freight but I'm not so sure. It would have been easy enough for Losca to create a dummy account."

        "You think he's financing some covert operation?" said Griston.

        Thrawn stood, taking the ledger copies with him, and paced toward the window. He brought something up on his datapad but declined to share with us.

        "I don't think so," I replied to Griston. I struggled not to focus entirely on the Admiral, his fine contours framed by the window's evening sky. "The payments are too irregular and there isn't enough there to cover living expenses for more than a few. I cannot imagine what sort of operation could function with that sum."

        "He could be paying someone off—blackmail, probably, if they caught wind of whatever he was into," said Laveurre.

        "Who has access an account of that type?" Griston replied, then turned to me. "Unless you think just anyone could get into a government account here with the right information."

        "The account is private," said Thrawn. He rejoined us at the table but did not take his seat. He placed the datapad down purposefully. I craned my neck to read whatever it was he had been looking at. "Major Griston, what is our status with Djaethi Freight Service?"

        "Local operation has been suspended and they've willingly turned over all digital records. They seem to be the only institution on this planet that doesn't keep all their documents on animal skins and clay tablets."

        "Good. Have their profit statements for the last twelve-month sent to me personally."

        "Working on a theory, sir?" asked Griston. Her fingers drummed on the table.

        "Only a theory," he replied.

        Thrawn retook his seat and tapped a comm unit on the table. A miniature hologram of Commander Pax appeared. "I apologize for the delay, Commander. You have news for us?"

        "Yes, Grand Admiral." Her shrill voice lacked its usual cheer. "I wish I had something more promising to offer. We followed the transmission to relay ORM-12, but its next destination is beyond Imperial territory. The coordinates indicate it was sent to another relay in Hutt Space."

        "Hutt Space?" repeated Laveurre. "That's a long way from home."

        "I take it we cannot access this relay," said Thrawn.

        "No, sir," Pax replied. "Not within the limits of our treaties. We can request access to their logs through diplomatic means—though, that approach could take weeks."

        "Given the unlikelihood the Hutts even agree to hand anything over," said Laveurre. "I'm sure there's a lot of data in that relay they would rather keep away from us."

        Pax nodded. "There are other means, of course, of acquiring what we need," she said, and turned back to Thrawn, "which I would not pursue without your express permission, Grand Admiral."

        "I understand," Thrawn replied. "Begin what preparations you can and we will discuss the rest in person when I return to the _Chimaera_." Pax gave a short nod and the transmission ended. Thrawn gathered his datapad and papers and stood, as did Major Griston.

        "Grand Admiral, a word?" she said. They proceeded together to the door, Griston inclining her head toward the Admiral as she spoke in a low voice.

        "Wait, sir—" I stood up rapidly. My hand went to Losca's red notebook, previously hiding beneath my copies of the fiscal records, as Thrawn and Griston stopped and turned toward me expectantly. I stepped forward and handed the booklet to Thrawn. "They're codes, sir, I believe in Losca's own hand. Maybe the same encryption he used in his distress signal."

        He opened the booklet carefully, his fingers caressing the edges and turning them delicately. His red eyes moved back and forth, taking time on each page, as if making sense of the meaningless letters.

        "This was in his office?" Thrawn asked.

        "In a safe under his desk," said Griston. Thrawn glanced at her curiously. "I helped Wilpress—crack it. That was the only thing inside. Hard to believe he'd be stupid enough to keep a book of encoded messages just lying around, not even on a datapad."

        "A datapad is only a different kind of safe-box," said Thrawn, "and just as easily broken into." He turned back to me. "I will hand this over to Commander Pax. Thank you, Crewman."

        "Well—actually, sir, I was hoping I could hold onto it. If Losca was able to work it out on paper, I believe I can as well. I'll try my hand at it, anyway."

        A smirk graced his lips, or so I thought, briefly. "Very well. I look forward to your findings." He closed the book and handed it back before disappearing from the room, Major Griston at his side.

        "He's—different, wouldn't you say?" said Laveurre, still at the table. Not long after, he too departed, leaving me alone in the large room, bathed now in bluish evening light.

        I sat down at the table with Losca's notebook, aiming to familiarize myself with the jumbled letters and numbers; but my mind wandered and I leaned back in the ornate padded chair. A tapestry hung on an inner wall of the room, depicting Gafeen, Goddess of War, spearing a wolf. The inscription read, "Lo, she watches over us in battle!"

        I closed the booklet and went to the window where Thrawn had stood earlier. Rain still fell, yet did not dampen the sunset; the sun was only as a sliver of crimson in the east, blazing between purple and orange clouds. The window looked northeast onto the plaza—enamored with the sky, I did not notice at first, but the market was abandoned. The stalls remained, closed up; I pressed myself closer to the glass in shock; even when the shops were closed the thoroughfare remained busy. Yet not a soul disturbed the grounds.

        At one of the outletting streets the white armor of a stormtrooper caught my attention, then two others at another street. Sentries barricaded each entryway and paced the rooftops. The plaza was closed for Imperial business, then.

        If Losca's part in this anti-Imperial business proved to be as serious as appeared, then that was it for Djaeth. We would all suffer for the transgressions of one. I could not imagine my family or anyone I knew complying with the tight leash of Imperial governance. My people rebelled when caged; like an insect in a jar we would knock ourselves against the glass until it killed us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went through some heavy remodeling. I think I smoothed out all the wrinkles but if you identify inconsistencies or mistakes please let me know.
> 
> Thank you to everyone still sticking to this. I'll try to be quicker with updates! 😵


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